


Sans Peur et Sans Reproche

by AMarguerite, Hammie



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-04
Updated: 2013-12-30
Packaged: 2017-12-04 06:35:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/707661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AMarguerite/pseuds/AMarguerite, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hammie/pseuds/Hammie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Grantaire was happy enough to join Bahorel and Jehan’s team, happy enough to mock and destroy, but he could not build. Even when Combeferre put aside his books and joined Courfeyrac and Enjolras, Grantaire couldn’t help but mock their solutions, their ideals, as well as everything else. Bahorel and Jehan didn’t seem to mind; they steered the conversation back into mockery and appreciated Grantaire’s skill with caricature. Courfeyrac seemed to like Grantaire’s puns, and even Combeferre liked practicing his aim against Grantaire. However, it was clear that the game had fundamentally changed."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Credit where credit’s due—the description of Grantaire comes from a tumblr post by cafemusain, and “le chevalier sans peur et sans reproche,” is the nickname of the chevalier de Bayard (about whom you shall hear more anon). Also, this started as a response to a kink meme and then got pretty far away from what was requested. As a general note, in French, one says, ‘Chapeau!’ to congratulate someone. And many thanks to Pip for all their help with characterization and plotting!

Enjolras first met Courfeyrac at a student protest about free speech. Enjolras had been hunting all over Paris for something. It was a ‘something’ he found in the words, engraved in fire, of the Declaration of the Rights of Man and of the Citizen, in that sudden realization of, ‘Yes, this is my purpose, this is why I am here.’

In boarding school Combeferre had smiled and called it the soul’s longing for the infinite. Enjolras only knew the feel of the call, the rightness of the words, of the situation, of the feeling of at once being consumed and released. He joined in the protest with his usual attitude of smiling reserve, searching, searching, always searching for that sudden flame that illuminated his life and made it brighter, clearer, like the prisoners in Plato’s cave stumbling out of a shadow world of puppet plays on the wall and into the sunlight.

It seemed to Enjolras, at first, that Courfeyrac was engraved in fire against the mob of students, against the gray Parisian sky. Enjolras didn’t know it was Courfeyrac, of course; he turned a corner and saw Courfeyrac chasing his hat, his auburn hair, with its reddish undertones, gleaming in the dying light. Courfeyrac was laughing and calling out some witticism that Enjolras could not hear, his black coat unbuttoned, his burgundy waistcoat gleaming against it. Enjolras picked up Courfeyrac’s top hat before it could be trampled by the rush of protesters making their way to the Hotel de Ville.

“ _Chapeau_ to you,” said Courfeyrac, with his warm, ready smile. Courfeyrac was handsome when he smiled and he knew it. But though there was vanity in it, it was not exactly self-absorption, but a sort of confidence, a readiness to please and be pleased, a knowledge that he could make other people happy with very little effort.

“Or rather to you,” said Enjolras. He had a dry sense of humor and liked the pun. Enjolras handed the top hat back to the other student. “I take it that you are a law student?”

“Did the hat give it away?” asked Courfeyrac, forlornly. “In general I try to dress well enough to throw everyone off the scent. I’m Courfeyrac, by the by.”

Their hands touched, briefly, as Courfeyrac took his hat again. His hand was warm. Enjolras had the sudden impulse to clasp it. However, Courfeyrac took back his hat and popped it on his head at the precise angle between rakish and fashionable.

“Enjolras.”

“Enjolras.” Courfeyrac had a hint of a Southern twang and pronounced Enjolras's name in the sing-song patois of Provence, dragging out ‘Enjolras’ as if it were a particularly fine passage in a song.

“Aix?” asked Enjolras.

Courfeyrac laughed. “However did you guess? I thought the Jesuits beat the accent out of me. Where are you from?”

“Marseilles.”

“Ah, a fellow Southerner!” It appeared that nothing could have delighted Courfeyrac more; he grinned and seemed inclined to sling an arm around Enjolras’s shoulders. But they had only just met—instead Courfeyrac pulled Enjolras into a group of students half singing out slogans of liberty and equality, talking all the while about a group that called themselves the _Courgurade d’Aix_ , of protests, of republicanism, of the silk workers strikes in Lyons. Courfeyrac’s inflections were a warm beakerful of the South, full of the rhythms of peasant dances, bright with the Provencal sunlight, as light and yet as penetrating as the Mistral. Enjolras was unspeakably drawn to that warmth. He felt at home for the first time in Paris. And he ended up putting an arm about Courfeyrac’s shoulders, as they stood in front of the Hotel de Ville.

Here was his purpose.

 

***

 

It surprised Enjolras how easily he slid into a friendship with Courfeyrac.  But Courfeyrac was just that sort of a person—all warmth, all radiance, all eager good-nature. Once you were his friend, you were friends for life and he would deliberately go out of his way to make you happy.

It was different from the intellectual camaraderie Enjolras had always had with Combeferre. With Combeferre Enjolras could sit down and say something random about Socrates or Saint-Just and have an hours-long conversation that thoughtfully tread through all ancient and modern philosophy and science. Conversations with Courfeyrac were farther from the cold radiance of the sublime and the intellectual and, though Courfeyrac was still very intelligent, there was a half-teasing tone, a warmth and an excitement that made each conversation more like a dance, or a friendly fencing match.

Combeferre liked to point out that after spending too much time with Courfeyrac, who delighted in falling into a sing-song Provencal accent at the slightest provocation, Enjolras’s own voice would gain a sort of hymn like cadence. Enjolras was obscurely pleased with this. He liked that idea that he was gaining a little of Courfeyrac’s warmth through repeated exposure. Generally too much exposure to the Southern sun left Enjolras painfully sunburnt, but with Courfeyrac there was all the warmth and light without the danger. All was easy.

One day, when the nucleus of their group was beginning to form, Courfeyrac pinned Charles X’s charter to the dart board. “Here’s a game for you Enjolras—hit a clause and we’ll debate its worthiness. Jehan, Bahorel, care to join in? Combeferre isn’t allowed to play because of his improbably good aim.”

Jehan and Bahorel hesitated as they were struggling through an untranslated poem of Byron’s. Neither of them spoke English, but they had a dictionary and the requisite Romantic imagination to fill in any gaps in their collective knowledge. But Bahorel liked to throw sharp objects (or any object at all, really) and soon persuaded Jehan. Combeferre was studying the bones of the hand and though he liked to be around the others, he would not be drawn into their games—or at least, he would not until he had memorized the names of twenty-seven different bones. Enjolras liked Courfeyrac for giving Combeferre an excuse not to play that doubled as a compliment.

Enjolras took a dart from Courfeyrac. “I warn you, Combeferre taught me how to shoot.”

“I shall be at a decided disadvantage if you can aim a dart as well as Combeferre aims a carbine.” Courfeyrac melodramatically pressed the back of his hand to his forehead. “You ought to have warned me before I challenged you to a game!”

He was not really offended; all this teasing was merely Courfeyrac’s way of playing. He was always careful with his playmates, often testing limits, but never trespassing over them. It was no fun at all to Courfeyrac if the other person wasn’t enjoying it too.

But, as it turned out, aiming darts was considerably trickier than aiming a carbine. Enjolras faithfully followed all of Courfeyrac, Combeferre and Bahorel’s suggestions (while ignoring Jehan’s ruminations on poetic vision)—he took off his coat, unwound his cravat, stood sideways (and then stood directly in front of the board when that didn’t work), tried to throw with his left hand, reverted to his right and smiled more than he had in weeks. They ended up debating whatever Courfeyrac hit and, since he was the best darts player, he made sure to hit the clauses Enjolras had mentioned that he would like to discuss.

As Bahorel and Jehan had formed Team Romanticism, as they dubbed themselves, Enjolras found himself leaning on Courfeyrac as they watched Bahorel and Jehan debate what to hit. Courfeyrac was sitting, half slumped in his chair, in a way that made it look physically impossible to get up; Enjolras was leaning half on the back of the chair and half on Courfeyrac’s shoulders. He could smell the lavender Courfeyrac packed in his linens to preserve them from moths. Enjolras thought, here, again, was his purpose, as they fired up each other’s enthusiasm, and Courfeyrac was the bright heart of the flame.

Enjolras thought that had never enjoyed himself more, surrounded by the noise and activity of his friends as they all seemed to aim their wit at each other, flinging points almost carelessly at their target, enjoying the clever display of rhetoric almost as much as the political debate. And this—this was all due to Courfeyrac, with his infectious good nature, his warmth, his verve, his diabolic beauty of the spirit. Enjolras’s heart was too full for exuberance, and, at any rate, any overflow of good feeling always turned into heartfelt speeches on the ideal, but he was deeply and sincerely happy.

“Oh come now, you do but dally,” complained Courfeyrac. “If you really are so desperate to hit clause three, I’ll do it next round.” He glanced up at Enjolras, his green eyes alight with merriment. “Do you think they’ll hit it? Or should I barge in and demand another turn?”

“We must obey the rules of our temporary social contract,” agreed Enjolras, with a smile. “We can put it to a vote, Bahorel.”

“I can hit it,” interrupted a gravely voice.

The five of them turned, their high spirits temporarily halted by the entrance of a newcomer. Jehan was almost exasperated and muttered, in an undertone to Combeferre, that they had chosen darts in this cramped corner over the more popular billiards room so as _not_ to be barged in upon by strangers.

But it was no stranger. Enjolras recognized the red nose, the face full of burst capillaries, the unibrow across the jutting forehead, the eyes that managed to be sunken and puffy all at once, the stooped posture, the alcohol and paint-splattered clothes, the greasy hair, the uneven teeth, the smallpox scars pitting his skin—it was Grantaire.

Enjolras felt an odd stirring of discomfort. It had obscurely entered and the warm camaraderie he had been sharing with Courfeyrac—the unwound cravats, the laughter, the feeling of basking in the Provencal sun—began to fade. Enjolras mentally chided himself for letting Grantaire’s sudden appearance on the scene so impact him. Grantaire was a citizen of France, like anyone else. He had the same potential. There was goodness in him… somewhere.

Enjolras had, in fact, hoped that Grantaire would stay in Marseilles, and not come to Paris to study painting under Gros as he always threatened to do. It was an unworthy wish, one Enjolras deeply regretted that he had, but Enjolras could not help glancing at Combeferre and fervently wishing that their interactions with Grantaire had ended with the _bac._ Grantaire had a habit of staring at Enjolras and dropping occasional compliments that made Enjolras feel uncomfortable.

“I thought it might be you,” said Grantaire, with his hideous smile. “There is no one like you in all of Paris, Enjolras. I saw your hair from outside when I was looking in the window, and I said to myself, well, Apollo is visiting us mortals, or at last I have seen where Enjolras hides himself in Paris. Or perhaps it has now become the fashion, once again, to paint our best marble statues with gold. ”

Though Combeferre had lectured everyone in their dormitory that Plato’s equation of beauty with goodness was a logical fallacy, Enjolras did not think Combeferre would blame him for recoiling from the alcohol fumes emanating from Grantaire. Besides which, Grantaire’s compliments made Enjolras feel unsettled; Enjolras had never seen his body as something other than a vessel to be shaped and trained to better live out his ideals and he disliked all the attention Grantaire lavished upon it, despite Enjolras’s active discouragement. Enjolras went to pick up his coat, and said, lightly, “Ah. Grantaire. I had thought you were still in Marseilles, at school.”

“I left it a year ago—I am in Gros’s atelier.”

“I am glad your family managed to arrange it after all,” said Combeferre, and then he, Grantaire and Enjolras chatted politely about professors Combeferre and Enjolras had admired and respected and which Grantaire had mocked (he had spent most of the lectures Enjolras had most valued drawing caricatures of the professors). Courfeyrac at once asked Grantaire if he would like to join the game.

Grantaire was happy enough to join Bahorel and Jehan’s team, happy enough to mock and destroy, but he could not build. Even when Combeferre put aside his books and joined Courfeyrac and Enjolras, Grantaire couldn’t help but mock their solutions, their ideals, as well as everything else. Bahorel and Jehan didn’t seem to mind; they steered the conversation back into mockery and appreciated Grantaire’s skill with caricature. Courfeyrac seemed to like Grantaire’s puns, and even Combeferre liked practicing his aim against Grantaire. However, it was clear that the game had fundamentally changed.

The others did not seem to mind.

Enjolras did, and felt fourteen again, put upon because the Jesuits had assigned Grantaire to his and Combeferre’s orderly dormitory as some bizarre punishment for their hidden republicanism. It was not a kind thought, nor a virtuous one, and Enjolras, coldly displeased with himself, became more silent, more reserved. He could not feel at ease, either, with Grantaire’s almost rude stares and his attempts at what Enjolras assumed was meant to be flirtation.

When Combeferre and Enjolras walked back to their shared quarters that evening, Combeferre understood, without Enjolras having to say it, how petty Enjolras felt he was being.

“I thought he would have grown out of that schoolboy infatuation,” Combeferre said, lightly, gently, as if testing a wound. “Was it very unpleasant for you?”

“More so than usual,” Enjolras said. “Grantaire drinks now—I had hoped after what happened in school….”

Combeferre could not think of anything to say and so took off his glasses to polish them with his handkerchief. “There is a mind under all that wreckage,” he said, eventually. “The world has been very cruel to him, it is not his fault if he drinks a little.”

Enjolras nodded. That was true. If only Grantaire applied it instead of seeing only images to be painted or adored, looked beneath the surface to see the racing mind, the beating heart—and, Enjolras thought, with a return to a pettiness in himself that he thoroughly disliked—if only Grantaire would stop staring at him as if trying to do a nude study while Enjolras still had on all his clothes. Enjolras remained withdrawn until Courfeyrac unexpectedly visited that evening and once again teased Enjolras out of his defenses with a bright conversation that bounced from ancient Rome to the first French republic, to Rousseau to Voltaire to the best fencing schools in Paris. Irresistibly drawn by this warm enthusiasm Enjolras forgot his uneasiness and felt comfortable in his skin once again.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You permit a great deal from your friends, but you dislike presumption from strangers,” said Courfeyrac, after a moment. “Have I got the right of it?”
> 
> “Yes.”
> 
> “And where does Grantaire fall in this spectrum for you?”
> 
> “It is not a pleasant story.”

“He seems to like you.”

This was said very casually by Courfeyrac, as they leaned against a tree in the Luxembourg, with the exhausted Combeferre half-using Enjolras’s folded coat and half-using Enjolras’s left leg as a pillow. The three of them had been discussing their friends, their debates, their projects, and Courfeyrac had not taken long to mention Grantaire, who now followed Enjolras around like a very vocal shadow. Combeferre had talked a bit about Grantaire’s studies under Gros before his thoughts began to jumble together and he’d yawned widely. Courfeyrac had told him to take a nap before he fell asleep in his dissection lab that afternoon and woke up in someone’s small intestine.

Enjolras wanted to fidget but was not in the habit of doing so. He instead looked at the rare, spring sunlight filtering greenly through the canopy of trees. “I know.”

Courfeyrac folded an arm behind his head. “Ah. I thought it would come as a surprise—you are very patient with him, but occasionally you seem puzzled by our grand R. You do realize… _how_ he likes you?”

“The Jesuits instructed me in all areas of life they found of interest.”

Courfeyrac winced. “I hope your Jesuits weren’t too bad. You’re a very charismatic fellow, Enjolras, and, if you will forgive me for saying so, when it clearly makes you uncomfortable, an almost angelically handsome one. There must have been quiet, vicious little fights among the younger boys to earn one of your smiles.”

“There were. I never asked for it. I disliked it intensely.”

Courfeyrac studied the dappled pattern of sunlight above them. “And I suppose Grantaire was the worst offenders in those contests. The way he looks at you sometimes makes _me_ uncomfortable, and I tell you, that doesn’t happen often.” After a moment, Courfeyrac said, “But there must be more to it than that, or you would have sent him running with a glare, like you did to that grisette at the the Ermitage, on the Boulevard du Maine. Granted, she did sit down on your lap when you weren’t expecting it....”

Enjolras shifted against the tree. His shoulders had tensed at the memory, which, of course, brought up others like it-- and a particularly unpleasant one with Grantaire, full of unpleasant shadows that crept in and half ruined the afternoon sunlight, the relaxing warmth of Combeferre on one side and Courfeyrac on the other.

“You permit a great deal from your friends, but you dislike presumption from strangers,” said Courfeyrac, after a moment. “Have I got the right of it?”

“Yes.”

“And where does Grantaire fall in this spectrum for you?”

“It is not a pleasant story.”

Courfeyrac shifted so that he could rest his auburn head against Enjolras’s shoulder. The weight and warmth of it seemed to dissolve some of the tension between Enjolras’s shoulder blades. “You don’t have to tell it if it upsets you. I always prod, you must tell me if I inadvertently prod at a bruise. It’s only idle curiosity on my part. But,” and this with a glance upwards, at Enjolras, “if a little bloodletting will heal the wound better, I can provide the appropriate receptacle. Whatever it’s called. Combeferre would know but this looks like the first time he’s slept in a week.”

“He’s having trouble with the human skeleton.” Enjolras rested his cheek on the top of Courfeyrac’s head, tentatively, delicately, like a bird alighting on a new perch. Theirs was a tactile friendship, it was easier to get Courfeyrac’s attention with a particular touch on the wrist, reserved for their use alone, than to be forever shouting his name, along with the dozens of others who wanted Courfeyrac to join them. But still, this was new. There was a curious intimacy in acknowledging all this openly—Enjolras had talked only in thinly veiled metaphors to Combeferre about his interactions with Grantaire at school.

“Combeferre and I first met at school—he was the _moniteur_ of our dormitory. Our headmaster liked to appoint students taking their _bac_ as the heads of dormitories, instead of forcing teachers to live there. The general principle behind it was to teach the most promising of the elder boys responsibility, to improve scores on the _bac_ by allowing the teachers to focus exclusively on their subjects, and to relieve the headmaster of some of his disciplinary duties, so he could spend more time at dinner parties with the local parents. Combeferre and I were very close friends, I was his natural replacement when he passed the _bac_ and went on to the medical school in Paris. Grantaire was one of the boys under my supervision.” The story sounded stilted to Enjolras’s own ears, but he told it as truthfully as he could.

“There is someone like Grantaire in every school, I think. He had been artistic and a little too obvious in his... admiration.” Courfeyrac gestured that he understood. “It-- it always made me uncomfortable. Not only was Grantaire one of the boys under my charge but he was....”

“Ugly?” supplied Courfeyrac.

“Even before some of the other students ‘accidentally’ broke his nose in the courtyard playing at the knights Bayard and Negus. That first happened under another _moniteur’s_ watch. By the time Combeferre was head of the dormitory and intervened, Grantaire’s nose had been “accidentally” broken three times.”

“Not exactly _sans reproche,_ ” observed Courfeyrac.

“Not exactly _sans peur_ either,” Enjolras observed, dryly. Enjolras knew how fear closed one down, shut off one’s capacity to hope. Enjolras had grown up running freely through his father’s shipyards in Marseilles. It had delighted all the seamen to see Monsieur Enjolras’s son, with his mother’s golden curls and delicate frame, scampering up and down the rigging, learning how to make knots and sitting and solemnly listening to the Chinese sailors tell him stories of their homeland in Cantonese. Most of the French sailors liked to teach Enjolras _savate_ and try to frighten him with tales of the uncaring sea, its savagery, its sublime power, but Enjolras, never having experienced the horrors of a hurricane, or a desperate fight in Marseilles alleyway, would not be frightened. He merely observed how some of the men shut down, closed off, turned immobile as their fear crowded out the possibility of any other reaction. It had startled him at the time to see men capable of lifting enormous chests of silks and Chinese porcelains one-handed while on rolling ships suddenly freeze when retelling stories of tidal waves. This he managed to easily describe to Courfeyrac, but he hesitated when trying to describe the fear he saw in Grantaire.

“What a fitting childhood,” exclaimed Courfeyrac, when it became clear Enjolras did not entirely know how to proceed. “I couldn’t have imagined a better one for you. Do you still know _savate_?”

“Yes—and, as a result, I ended all the beatings Grantaire received—or, rather, all the beatings I saw.” Enjolras briefly touched Courfeyrac’s sun-warmed hair for reassurance. “I should have kept a better eye on Grantaire, tried to drive out that same paralyzing fear. But it had been my first chance at implementing my egalitarian principles. I was at great pains to treat everyone equally and to not spend more time with one student more than the others. And….”

Courfeyrac shifted so he could glance up at Enjolras. “And, I suppose, Grantaire made any tetes-a-tetes exceedingly awkward. Did he ever try anything?”

“He confined himself to staring—leering sometimes—and once or twice he tried to put a hand on my knee. I think once he was trying to….”

“Make you aware of his availability?”

Enjolras nodded. “I ignored it. I had to study for the _bac._ ”

“Really? It’s not required for the law school, only courses in rhetoric or philosophy at a collège royal or collège communal.”

“My father wished for me to take it.” Enjolras lifted a shoulder in a shrug. “I had no moral objection to it, and I’ve always been good at tasks that required sustained and concentrated attention. I devoted less attention to Grantaire’s daily torments than was, perhaps, necessary.”

“You can’t still blame yourself for that,” said Courfeyrac, softly.

“Not for that,” replied Enjolras.

Courfeyrac did not prod. He shifted so that Enjolras could instead comfortably drape an arm around Courfeyrac’s middle, instead of letting his arm stay pinioned between them. “About a week before the _bac_ Grantaire had a broken rib. I decided to end bullying once and for all, and took him to the headmaster. At one point the headmaster turned to me to ask about my course of study, whether or not I hoped for a place at one of the Grand Ecoles, whether or not my father’s expected ship from China would be arriving soon in port, and, most importantly--” this with a smile and a glance at Courfeyrac, whom Enjolras knew would enjoy the joke, “--whether or not the headmaster might have some of the oolong tea in its hull. While we were occupied, Grantaire stole several bottles of the port the headmaster used during communion as the blood of the new covenant.” Enjolras paused. “Grantaire drank them all in one sitting that night, while hiding in the lavatory.”

“Jesus Christ,” said Courfeyrac. “No pun intended, this is—was—is? My apologies Enjolras, this is more serious than I expected for _Grantaire,_ of all people.”

“Puns can be serious.”

After a moment, Courfeyrac said, “You needn’t go on if It makes you uncomfortable but what happened? Did you find Grantaire?”

“No, some of the first year students did. They were terrified that Grantaire was dying, as he was pale and cold to the touch after he had vomited on the floor and collapsed. I had seen one or two of his father’s sailors drink themselves to death, I knew what had happened as soon as one of the first-years stumbled over the bottles. I carried Grantaire to the infirmary—I ought to have caught it before it came to such a dangerous pass. Grantaire didn’t wake up until sun rise, and even then took ten minutes to realize he wasn’t dead. I almost didn’t hear him say that no one else would have taken him to the infirmary. I was sixteen and exhausted, with a constitution unsuited to lying….”

“And, unfortunately, Grantaire was right,” said Courfeyrac.

Enjolras couldn’t contradict him. “I said what my father said to sailors in the same situation: ‘It would have very much upset me if something had happened to you. You are part of my dorm.’ My father usually said “fleet” instead. And then, ‘If you ever have a problem I hope you will come to me for help. You are cared for.’”

They were quiet for a few moments; Enjolras watched the sparrows hopping along the gravel paths and let his fingers tangle with Courfeyrac’s, as their hands rested on Courfeyrac’s silken waistcoat.

“Did that improve matters?” Courfeyrac asked.

“No. Grantaire then thought—or I suppose he thought that I wanted what I’d carefully avoided since I was twelve, when Maurice de Montmorency tried to drag me into a closet during free time. That was all Grantaire could understand—not the friendship which winds its roots deep into the soul and grows with every breath, but the sordid attempts of sodomy playing at affection that had been the only moments of kindness he had known in boarding school. And I was busy with my examinations thereafter. I never got the chance to explain what I had meant by “cared for,” as in paying for medical bills, sorting out financial tangles—the sort of thing my father did—the sort of kindness that comes at a distance to preserve the dignity of both benefactor and recipient. Or, better yet, the pure and disinterested friendship I found with Combeferre. All I could do was ignore his overtures until school ended.”

“That must be exceedingly awkward for you,” said Courfeyrac, after a moment. “My heart bleeds for Grantaire, poor fellow, no one deserves the sort of treatment he experienced, but I’ve often been on the receiving end of persistent but unrequited _tendres._ I know how unpleasant it is. People always expect you to reciprocate out of politeness. And in such a situation one has to tread so delicately….”

Enjolras said only, “Perhaps it will lead him to something better, to something he can believe in, a truth for which he can live and die.”

Courfeyrac seemed a little more skeptical, but, then again, he did not know Grantaire. Enjolras did not flatter himself, he did not particularly know Grantaire either, but he _knew_ of the potential living in every man.

Courfeyrac shifted against Enjolras’s shoulder. “Well, _The Symposium_ would have it that we love that which we lack—and poor Grantaire, one look at him while one is in a bad mood and one is moved to comparisons with Gorgons.”

“All this flattery when you are the handsomest of our group?” asked Enjolras, not entirely insincerely.

Courfeyrac had a red-head’s complexion even though his hair had darkened almost to brown. His blush was sudden and noticeable. Enjolras rather liked it, though he was surprised at the effect he had on Courfeyrac, of all people, who floated in flirtation as a duck in water. Courfeyrac was almost clumsy in his recovery. “Ah… yes. Well. I’ll introduce Grantaire to Bossuet, a wonderful fellow, always optimistic despite his bad luck. Or rather, I’ll introduce Grantaire to Bossuet and Joly. To talk to one is to talk to the other. Bossuet never approaches cynicism, but dwells in irony. Perhaps with the right friends the awkwardness will dissipate.”

Enjolras admitted to the wish but not to the expectation that Courfeyrac would be right.


	3. Chapter Three

Courfeyrac was wrong.

Enjolras sat in the back room of the Cafe Musain and watched the conversations flying around each other, the maelstrom of energy and excitement, and watched Grantaire talking with Joly and Bossuet, perfectly at ease. Enjolras almost immediately amended the thought.

Courfeyrac was actually right in that Grantaire got along swimmingly with Joly and Bossuet. Courfeyrac was wrong, however, in thinking that it would distract Grantaire from Enjolras.

Grantaire kept staring at Enjolras just as much, and had, in fact, moved to outright leering, or, what was worse, woebegone, longing looks, as if Enjolras alone was responsible for the misery Grantaire kept at bay with strong drink.

Enjolras had become decently good at ignoring Grantaire’s stares, but did not know how to react to these leers. Cool indifference did not seem to prove to Grantaire Enjolras’s own disinterest, nor did attempts to change the subject, or, once Enjolras’s neutral, carefully calm inquiry, “Grantaire, do you believe anything we are saying?”

“I believe it when you say it,” Grantaire had replied, before following this up with an offensive comment about Enjolras’s looks (Enjolras had responded by quitting the room immediately). Enjolras did not know entirely how to react any longer. He very much regretted that he could not have the easy, jokey camaraderie that the others had with Grantaire, but if he tried that Grantaire would increase his new and alarming habit of grabbing for Enjolras’s hand when Enjolras was trying to use it for something.

Enjolras had ruined a galley sheet for a pamphlet arguing against the French invasion of Algeria when Grantaire drunkenly reached for his hand as Enjolras was reaching for a pen. Enjolras had automatically jerked his hand back and knocked over an inkwell. If only Grantaire would stop doing that, would stop staring at Enjolras as if trying to undress him, would stop making uncomfortable innuendos only half-hidden in a flood of classical allusions--

What made it all the more frustrating was that Enjolras could see Grantaire’s value to the rest of his friends. Jehan, for example, was prone to fits of profound melancholy, where he could write nothing he liked, and where he only brooded on his inequities. Grantaire was uniquely capable of pulling Jehan out of his broods and make him laugh, sometimes improvising terrible poetry of his own so that Jehan felt better about his. Joly and Bossuet prefered him to all others as a drinking companion, and despite the sadness Enjolras always saw in Grantaire, Grantaire could rise to the exalted levels of their mirth-- Joly, whom everyone called ‘Jolly’ for his good humor, had gained two more ‘l’s, or ‘ailes,’ ‘wings’ thanks to Grantaire. Bahorel and Grantaire would often box together in a Romantic exaltation in destruction, Grantaire occasionally discussed art with Feuilly who, though an artisan, a fan-painter, had impressively and ferociously educated himself on anything that interested him and anything that was at all useful to his profession. Courfeyrac, once or twice, had mentioned passing a  pleasant evening at a dance hall with Grantaire part of the company, and Combeferre could often be persuaded from his studies for a round of darts with Grantaire.

The reactions of Courfeyrac and Combeferre to Grantaire perhaps made Enjolras the most annoyed with himself; Courfeyrac and Combeferre knew the lowest point of Grantaire’s life, and treated Grantaire with, respectively, a half-teasing warmth and friendliness (which occasionally slid over to exasperation at Grantaire’s overindulgence), and a level-headed, philosophic gentleness.

But, then again, Grantaire chose to be a different person around them than he was around Enjolras-- and had been around Enjolras.

Grantaire seemed intent on reminding Enjolras of his worst and lowest point, on reminding Enjolras of what he had been in boarding school. Enjolras, however, was no longer the same person he had been-- he had been testing his ideals in school and now he was consumed with them. Enjolras acknowledged his past, his privilege, all he had been, but he felt driven to soar upwards, to pass through the refiner’s fire of the revolution so that all he was, all he could be, served the future. He could not wallow in the mire. But that was where Grantaire liked to sit, and he wished Enjolras to join him there. In those moments, Enjolras could not find any better emotion in himself than a sort of lofty pity. At worst Enjolras was impatient to the point of disdain. Enjolras hated that he reacted in such a fashion, but he did not want to reminiscence about the time one of the students under his watch nearly drank himself to death. He wanted to address the causes and fix whatever misery had inspired it, so that it would not happen in future.

Grantaire did not.

Enjolras could not make himself understand this, why Grantaire had no desire to improve himself, or to root out whatever misery ate at his capacity for belief like acid through metal. There were problems in the world yes, problems that seemed insurmountable. But there was love, too, and kindness, and philosophy and warmth and science and optimism and understanding-- and all those things, mixed together, as they were whenever the Amis bent their collective efforts on some task, all those things could soothe even the greatest of social ills. Enjolras had at first hoped Grantaire had attached himself, barnacle-like, to their group because he saw in their group the antidote to whatever social poison made him so unhappy, but Grantaire did not much change. He was a good companion to the others, but he did not take part in their serious discussions. He did not build. He did not believe.

Enjolras could not understand why, or why, instead of relying on the good qualities of the friends all around him to become better, happier, Grantaire instead only looked to Enjolras, with a sort of naked hunger, a sort of desperate grasping that made Enjolras retreat inward in an attempt to ignore his discomfort.

That particular day, Enjolras had just been musing about all the excellent qualities of his friends. Despite the mishap with the ink, the Amis de l’ABC had created a wonderful pamphlet arguing against the invasion of Algeria, combining together all of their distinct and wonderful perspectives into a clear, witty and well reasoned whole. Enjolras had been moved to a speech on how wonderful his friends were and how spectacular their success had been. This, in turn, so pleased everyone that they were in exuberant high spirits. Grantaire had come in some time afterwards and though he didn’t understand why they were all so happy, nor did he care to ask. Enjolras had tried to hold onto the clear-headed exultation he had felt, but gradually felt himself retreating more and more into a smiling reserve as Grantaire snuck closer to his table in the corner.

Courfeyrac and Combeferre came over, Courfeyrac laughing, Combeferre with a pleased half-smile at Courfeyrac’s teasing.

“Did you know,” said Courfeyrac, “that Combeferre can now draw a silkworm moth from memory? I bet him it would take me longer to recite the preamble to the Declaration of the Rights of Man and Citizen than for him to draw a moth and now we need an arbitrator. I don’t believe it!”

Combeferre had first been persuaded away from a treatise on miasma theory, then persuaded into having a drink, then another and then into a contest which he would undoubtedly win, and which would entertain the rest of them. Enjolras was pleased at this; Combeferre had worked the hardest on the pamphlet, taking on the fiddly tasks of fixing everyone’s grammar, checking for misplaced type, and working with the printer to choose the size of the paper, the size of the columns and every other detail of turning their ideas into reality. But Combeferre protested that all this practical work was not worth any fuss, so Courfeyrac skillfully found a way to heap praise upon Combeferre for other reasons. Enjolras was glad of this, he had spent several nuit blanches, or all-nighters, helping Combeferre to rearrange the galley sheets, fact-checking points Combeferre found dubious, laying half-tangled together on their couch checking the galley sheets against the drafts.  

“Of course,” said Enjolras, drawing his watch from his pocket. “What are the stakes?”

“Boulliabaisse, at the Barrère de la Cunette!” Courfeyrac struck a dramatic oratorical pose that made him look as if he ought to be wearing a toga. “Be warned Combeferre-- boulliabaisse comes only second to macarons for me, I will not let you win!”

“I am not so set on the prize as the accomplishment of the task,” replied Combeferre, “which may tip the scales in my favor.”

Enjolras ignored Grantaire on his left, still rambling about something (Enjolras had, early on, given up trying to follow Grantaire’s hour-long flights of fancy, which frequently butted against every single character in the Greek pantheon), and said, “Ready? Begin!”

The others took the opportunity to crowd closer and Grantaire did too. Enjolras tried to keep his attention on his pocket watch, on Combeferre’s delight in knowledge and Courfeyrac’s joy in his showmanship, but Grantaire kept hanging over him, like one of the gargoyles on the crumbling Notre Dame cathedral.

“Done!” exclaimed Combeferre, throwing aside his quill.

“--may always be directed toward the maintenance of the Constitution and the happiness of all-- dammit, I still have another line to go!”

“Combeferre is the winner!” exclaimed Bahorel. “In quite possibly the most blue-stocking contest I have ever witnessed.”

Courfeyrac rather melodramatically admitted defeat and faked a swoon of disappointed expectations into one of the chairs at Enjolras’s table. Combeferre was still sitting across from Enjolras, looking happily at his drawing. Enjolras expected Bahorel to take the last seat, or perhaps Feuilly, who could always be drawn into the center of the group with the promise of knowledge.

Instead, it was Grantaire.

Enjolras tried to avoid him by touching Courfeyrac lightly on the inside of his wrist and leaning over to murmur his thanks. Courfeyrac smiled, and Enjolras turned to tap the back of Combeferre’s hand. “May I see?”

Combeferre, pleased, spun the paper around. “As you can see here, there are the antennae--” And he was off, naming each part of the moth with a speed and enthusiasm that made Enjolras smile. Combeferre was always so profoundly and deeply interested in everything. That had increased since they’d left school. All the goodness of Combeferre’s nature, his knowledge, his mind, had expanded. His horizons were limitless and one could always revel in the dawn born of true enlightenment. Enjolras clasped Combeferre’s hand when every part of the moth had been named and celebrated.

About thirty seconds later, Enjolras almost regretted this and all his previous shows of affection, as Grantaire was now intent on somehow seizing such marks of trust and friendship for himself. Grantaire tried to sneak his hand next to Enjolras’s left hand; Enjolras moved quickly to pull the moth diagram towards himself. Then Grantaire reached for the paper. Enjolras ceded it at once and then turned to Jehan to congratulate him on a sonnet he had recently gotten published in _Le Globe_. Grantaire leaned forward and interrupted with a rambling speech on various classical poets and how now they were all dead. Enjolras leaned back and folded his hands in his lap.

This was a poor choice; Grantaire grabbed for Enjolras’s hand under the table and brushed Enjolras’s thigh by mistake. Enjolras’s first impulse was to violently push himself away from the table, but instead, schooling his features into a mask of indifference, scooted his chair back and said something vague about needing to see a newspaper in the front room.

He strode out quickly and began sorting through the barred papers, until he felt calm enough to reflect upon his feelings. There were footsteps in the hall; Enjolras seized the end of one of the newspaper bars as if it were a singlestick.

“Enjolras?”

That Provencal lilt, the sound of his name like a passage in an old Troubadour song, was uniquely Courfeyrac. Enjolras felt the apprehension and tension in his body slowly dissipate. “Ah, Courfeyrac.”

In Occitan, the old language of the chevalier Bayard and still, in a modified form, the language of the peasantry in the South, Courfeyrac said, “What happened, my friend?”

“Nothing happened,” said Enjolras, trying to pinpoint his frustration. He automatically responded in the same language, though he hadn’t spoken it since saying farewell to the sailors who had raised him before heading off to Paris. It was a comforting language, of people who knew him and understood him and did not presume.

“Ah,” said Courfeyrac. He went to stand by Enjolras, leaning against the table closest to the newspaper rack. After a moment he went to touch Enjolras lightly on the wrist and then said, a little apologetically, “Do you permit it?”

That seemed to drive out the last of the tension. Enjolras favored Courfeyrac with a little half-smile. “Of course. You are always welcome.”

“It never hurts to check.” He touched Enjolras lightly on the wrist. Enjolras let go of the newspaper stick and turned instead to clasp Courfeyrac’s hand. How different a gesture could be—here he felt only relief at Courfeyrac’s friendship, his support. Whenever Grantaire lunged for Enjolras’s hand Enjolras remembered the time Maurice de Montmorency had tried to drag him into a closet, and felt a sense of deep unease.

“Grantaire is making you uncomfortable,” said Courfeyrac. “It’s perfectly fine to be upset about it.”

Enjolras said, after a moment, “Everyone who ought to have been responsible for Grantaire’s problems or, at least, averting them, abandoned him. Society is not just. It is not fair. I have felt--” He grasped at something he could not hope to touch. “I have felt... called to change it, to make a world where all men are equal. I do not... wish to abandon Grantaire when all others have.”

“But you aren’t responsible for Grantaire’s problems-- it’s admirable that you want to help him with them, but that’s... not what he wants from you.”

“No,” said Enjolras. “It isn’t-- but if I speak clearly-- he is cared for, yes, as I care for any citizen of the republic suffering from the cruelty of an unequal society. I am... worried, however, that if I make that too clear, he will turn to drink again-- and we no longer are in the same dorm. I would not be able to save him.”

Courfeyrac looked faintly puzzled. “Ah, so among all your other duties, you are also Grantaire’s keeper? I’m not sure he would appreciate that.”

“He does not appear to appreciate anything about me but my ‘fine marble’ as he phrases it,” said Enjolras, a little dryly.

“It is very strange, how he treats you—it isn’t—well.” Courfeyrac stroked the inside of Enjolras’s wrist to reassure him. “He does not share with you the things about himself that are the most worthwhile. That’s a shame but it’s no fault of yours. It is also no fault of yours that instead he prefers to treat you as an object at which to grasp instead of a person with thoughts and feelings and preferences.”

“I am, perhaps, overreacting,” said Enjolras.

Courfeyrac pulled out a chair for him. Enjolras sat but could not quite meet Courfeyrac’s eyes. “Hey—come, look at me, my friend, I’m not a Medusa about to turn you into stone. In fact, I think this cravat is one of my better efforts.”

Enjolras prefered to look at his clasped hands.

Courfeyrac touched the inside of Enjolras’s wrist, very gently, to remind him of the safety of their intimacy. “You aren’t overreacting. You are uncomfortable, you show it, and he ignores it. It’s not your fault that Grantaire has consistently misinterpreted any show of normal, polite behavior as an invitation-- which no one else would see. Your behavior isn’t at fault-- you seem to doubt me but the signals you give are the last, polite step before outright hostility. Joly and Bossuet mentioned to me how baffled they are that Grantaire keeps trying to ingratiate himself when that’s one of the few ways to get himself cast out.”

Enjolras, concerned that he was fraying the close bonds that tied the Amis together, only had to look his unease for Courfeyrac to drive out his fears.

“Oh, no,” Courfeyrac cut in, very quickly. “In relation to Louison. He forced her into a corner,  told her she was ugly and tried to force a kiss from her. Bossuet had to intervene. It’s not some flaw that you’re uncomfortable with his innuendos. Almost everyone he approaches with them are. I would be.”

That won a smile from Enjolras, who at last met Courfeyrac’s eyes. Courfeyrac’s smile was kind, and there was a depth of understanding in his expression that Enjolras felt like he had been searching for ever since Grantaire had arrived in Paris and begun staring at Enjolras with the hunger for possession.

“Yes, even I would be, given your experiences with him,” said Courfeyrac. “My experiences have been different. He’s never tried to grab my hand or flirt with me when I was having a serious political discussion. He’s never tried to invite himself into my bed when he’s drunk. To me he’s always been entertaining-- perhaps irritating when he’s drunk too much or when he tries to mock my ideals-- but then again, that’s how he tries to present himself to me. As far as I can tell he’s never even made an effort to try and connect with you-- with your ideals, or your thoughts or your passions.”

Enjolras studied the gray sky outside the window next to them. “I feel as though I ought to be able to look past--”

“No, that’s not your responsibility,” Courfeyrac cut in. “Enjolras, he doesn’t respect the clear boundaries you have drawn and that is not your fault. You have _every right_ to be uncomfortable with his attempts at trespassing. This slow creep over your boundaries is not permissible-- Grantaire is ignoring your obvious signs of discomfort.” Then, a little teasingly, since he saw Enjolras’s unhappiness, “The liberty of one citizen ends where another’s begins, after all.”

Enjolras dredged up another half-smile, to please Courfeyrac.

Seeing he was not entirely believed, Courfeyrac continued on, “I may not be Combeferre, but you will agree I know something about love, will you not? And it cannot be coerced. _You_ are not required to love someone because they love you. Desire does not equal deserving.” Courfeyrac paused. “What-- what do you think you owe him, Enjolras?”

Slowly, he replied, “The respect I give to any citizen.”

“There you have it,” replied Courfeyrac, with an almost Combeferre-ish gentleness. “You don’t owe him some... access, I suppose, to your person because he wishes it. You have a right to feel peaceful in your own body. Look, Grantaire is a deeply unhappy person. We have made it known that we will help him. He only needs to accept our offer. As of yet, he has not, and it is... well, as you mentioned, it would do more harm than good force Grantaire’s hand in this. We cannot help him until he wishes to accept our help. Have you said anything about this to Grantaire?”

“Something that will not either crush Grantaire, or something he will understand?” Courfeyrac’s usual inventiveness, which always seemed to be springing up in bad puns, entirely deserted him. Enjolras said, a little ironically, “We cannot have both.”

“Perhaps I could say something?” said Courfeyrac. “Or perhaps Combeferre?”

Combeferre came out of the back room, still working his arms into the sleeves of his tailcoat. “Ah, there you are Courfeyrac! Enjolras, would you care to join us? It would give me immense pleasure-- oh, have I interrupted?”

“No, the issue under debate has no clear solution,” replied Enjolras.

Courfeyrac looked as if he wanted to argue, but, as Enjolras got up and immediately went to help Combefere put his coat on, Courfeyrac let the matter lie. But he muttered, as they went out, “Article Four, Liberty consists in the freedom to do everything which _injures no one else_.”

And Enjolras thought, uncomfortably, there are many kinds of injury.

 


End file.
